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eek!
hard to know what to say without seeming/being hurtful, so i'll start with an interpretation: the experience of losing one's virginity.
and not to single you out, but i usually hate other people's poetry, no matter how good or what their reputation be: like, i think that the Iliad is crap and boring; but maybe that's supposed to be performed, rather than read, and that's why it seems lifeless.
with that, a criticism i offer is that your poem needs a bit of colour to catch the eye and a rich depth hold it.
oh, and a bit of structured flow, too

alas.....okay, let me see...
first, here's one of mine; one of my faves, although i don't know what others think of it, and one which, by memory, seems to be a lot longer than as is written (probably because of the research involved; and that i have three different endings to suit different audiences):

Aye, Miss Clipper, tha were a dainty wee lass,
Virginally dressed as an age was to pass.
Resplendently restive, as filly should be,
Scorning of colt, 'tis time for tea.

performance-wise, i tried to ensure that it could be spoken in any of the 'northern english' accents (inc. the Celtic).
the underlying structure is primarily double-layered as it deals with the Cutty Sark and the story behind the naming of it and it took a bit of thought to keep it a simple, swift story as would be engaging for a casual reader/listener whilst still including the essential references for those looking deeper.
it's actually enjoyable to perform, as it rolls of the tongue, without having to read anything more into it.

other people's poems? well, performance being a needed part, there's actually a lot of good wordsmiths behind many pop-songs, and a constant theme amongst thoughtful writers is that of having a traditional story-line, along with that foot-tapping quality that makes people want to listen. the bread and the circus, no less.
if i were to vouch for one, one who always springs to mind is Sam Cooke, for the traditional approach; but there are many more and most you probably don't think about in terms of their lyrics.
Paul Heaton, of The Housemartins and The Beautiful South, consistantly delivered with new takes on old themes: The Beautiful South - Let Love Speak Up Itself - YouTube

my current most fulfilling read along these lines is The Proverbs of John Heywood and you can see some 'critique' on the wiki page. but, critics are usually just pretenders and failures, either so up their own arses or so clueless that they dismiss the likes-of-which i've mentioned simply on the class-inspired belief that the common touch is for the 'lesser' commoners. as Julian Sharman's introduction to aforesaid Proverbs points out:The traditions of old Saxon literature
had never been obliterated by rust
or utterly defaced by invasion; even
after the toll of the curfew, there yet
lingered round the Saxon embers the
homely folk-speech of Jutes and Angles. But the
hidden graces of that English tongue no English
Aristotle had attempted to uncover. No earlier
Erasmus had arisen to restore the gems of speech
and learning ; no English Quintilian to knit the
scattered threads of idiom together. Everywhere
where the English independence was subjected, was
the English language as effectually despised.

which has it's own poetic quality. and as the political situation and the passing of time influence all things, my suggestion would be for you to begin with that which is most accessible to you: contemporary pop music and comedy.
and you'll find that a lot of modern stuff is inspired by, or a re-working of, the so-called classics; which'll be a lead, if you so wish.

and, in particular, a neat format used by many comedy performers is that of the 'story-loop' (where the ending feeds back into the begining), because there's nothing more farcically comical, or truer, than our running our arses off only to find ourselves back where we started from.

A man rode in from Cheetham Hill,
A wild and untamed Jew;
They say that he was six foot six
Reduced to five foot two.
Cohen the Barbarian
Liked pillage and puddings and beer;
He was the most famous barbarian in Mossley;
Hardly anyone thought he was queer.
It's recorded by Homer and Plautus
He let no one in Saddleworth sleep:
He laid waste to wives and daughters
And an indeterminate number of sheep.

His early days were tumultuous,
Recorded by poet and bard;
He'd been to Audenshaw Grammar
And consequently he was dead hard.
Yet there was none but Mavis Clegg
Could have satisfied his lust;
She had poise and grace and charm
And a forty two inch bust.
He went up to her father
And his love for her did tell,
I want vour daughter's hand, he cried,
And the other bits as well.

A hard man Mavis's father;
This was the task he gave;
You must capture the golden ferrets of the Hesperides
Before you can have our Mave,
Before you can wed my daughter
You must bring them home to me;
The fabled five far-famed ferrets;
You must sail the wine-dark sea.

The fabled five far-famed ferrets of the Hesperides;
The news spread like wildfire round the houses;
The great golden ferrets of the gods,
Last seen up Agaememnon's trousers.
Tis a task beyond all mortals,
Father to his daughter said;
For I've already got 'em
Locked up in the garden shed.

Meanwhile, down at the job centre
There were jobs by the dozen about
For brickles and plumbers and milkmen
But the lads there had got it sussed out;
They'd pick up their weekly giro,
They'd go up to the clerk and report,
And there, where it says occupation,
They'd written Argonaut.

I suppose you could call it bad luck;
It wasn't what they'd planned;
Suddenly - in Saddleworth,
Argonauts were in demand.
And when Dawn with rosy finqers lit the, east
They just had to grin, and bear it
As they set off with Cohen, the Barbarian
In search of the golden ferret.

Far beyond the pillars of Hercules,
Where the winds of Aoleus blow,
In the land of the many headed Hydrant
Where the men from the Pru never go,
Where there are serpents and whirlpools,
Dark islands of eternal gloom
And, most fearsome of all, the voices
That lure sailors to their doom.

The terrible song of the Nolans
Feared from Ormskirk to Troy;
The sound of the eighty three sisters
That no man can live to enjoy;
The ninety seven sisters
Who beguile both boy and man,
But not Cohen the Barbarian,
For Cohen had a plan.

He'd be tied safely to the mainmast
There were earplugs for the crew;
Five bob in the shops
But two and six to you.
He filled their ears with wax,
Then he left the wax to harden;
Now tie me to the mast, he said
And everyone said Pardon?
He unplugged their ears of wax
And they tied him up and then
He sold them back the earplugs
For another two and ten.

They were safe from the two hundred Nolans;
Let them mount their worst attack;
And with Cohen safely tied up
They all took their money back.

Then the fearsome sound came floating,
Cohen wished that he was dead;
He tried to buy some earplugs,
But they couldn't tell what he said.

At last, the sound receded;
Right lads; untie the knot:
We're safe now from the Nolans;
And the crew all answered: What?

Just like the Flying Dutchman,
There's a ghost ship sails the seas,
The skipper waxing lyrical,
The crew deaf to his pleas.
The love of Mavis Clegg,
The golden ferrets, all forgot;
The captain cries: Untie me!
The crew all answer: What?

hope that's some help, at least. and you'll know when you've done a corking job because it's the same sense of satisfaction as with having done anything well. and it won't matter what anybody else thinks

Thanks! This is quite a well written response and took some obvious time! You have a way with words as displayed in your own poem of the ship. I enjoyed the Cohen one as well and had a chuckle at it's clever and unexpected humor. As I am getting older my interest in them is gaining momentum.

Mine was about a dream I had a few years ago and the reality haunts me occasionally. It wasn't about the loss of virginity but rather how 'playfully' we got there and the sad way that we had to part ways as the sun was coming up. It isn't as provocative as it let's on to be. This scene in the dream lasted only a few seconds.